Page 36 of Dirty Hit
I’m still wearing it now as I cross the quad.
Campus feels too bright when I get there. The quad’s busy, the fall air crisp enough that people have swapped shorts for jeans and hoodies, the grass damp from last night’s sprinklers. I move through it on autopilot, coffee in one hand, bag strap digging into my shoulder, and it doesn’t take long for the attention to start.
“Brendon!” A girl from my constitutional law class jogs up beside me, her ponytail bouncing. “You okay? You missed everything yesterday. I thought you were dead.”
Her choice of words punches me in the gut, but I keep my face neutral. “Yeah, fine,” I lie smoothly. “Just a bug or something.”
She grimaces sympathetically. “That sucks. Professor Hartman said you hardly ever miss.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, forcing a little shrug. “Guess I’m human.”
She laughs and pats my arm. “Let me know if you need notes, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll grab the slides.”
By the time I reach my first class, three more people have checked on me. The student worker at the front desk asks if I’m feeling better.
One of my professors pauses before starting lecture, glances at me, and says, “Glad you’re back, Brendon; we missed you yesterday,” and the class turns to look, some faces curious, some genuinely concerned.
I raise my hand in a small wave, smile on automatic. “Just a twenty-four-hour thing,” I say. “I’m okay.”
Everyone seems relieved. It should make me feel gratitude or warmth, but instead all I feel is hollow. It’s like I’m on the other side of a pane of glass, watching myself move through my life. I take notes, answer questions when the professor calls on me, and nod at the right moments.
But inside there’s this numb space where everything loud used to be. The only sharp thing left is the faint pressure of leather against my skin whenever I shift my wrist.
At least I don’t see Dominic.
Between classes, between buildings, at the coffee stand; I keep half-expecting him to appear. It’s almost reflex now, scanning for the shape of him, for dark hair and broad shoulders and that easy, coiled way he moves. Every time I realize he’s not in my line of sight, I feel a mix of relief and… confusion.
He has practice, film, and other places to be that aren’t my classes. I know that. Still, part of me is braced for him to walk up behind me, lean down, and say something filthy right in my ear. I know he won’t, because he values his reputation too much.
The hours tick by: one lecture, then another, a quick sandwich eaten over my notebook, students asking for clarification on assignments, and professors thanking me for rescheduling office hours. My day looks exactly like it usually does, but the difference sits under my sleeve.
My phone stays on vibrate in my pocket, and half the time I forget it’s there until it buzzes hard enough against my leg to drag my attention back. Most of the vibrations are harmless—group chat pings, department emails, a notification from the campus app—but the first time his name lights up the screen, my stomach drops.
Dominic:Answer your fucking phone, Little Sin.
I stand dead still in the hallway, staring at the message. It came in less than five minutes ago. There’s another bubble below it.
Dominic:You alive or did you crawl under your bed and die of shame?
A bitter laugh wants to claw its way up my throat. He’s annoyingly close to the truth, minus the dying part.
Me:I’m in class.
The three dots show up almost immediately.
Dominic:So you can text.
Dominic:Gold star.
Dominic:You wear the cuff?
I glance down at my wrist instinctively, even though I already know the answer. The sight of it there sends a hot flush up my neck.
Me:I’m at school. I have work.
It’s a non-answer, and we both know it.
